Winter
by xRainyDaysxx
Summary: *Prequel to To Build a Home.* Maybe one day we'll just fall down with the snowflakes.
1. Chapter 1: Late Night

**Alright, this is something I have debated on posting for a while now.**

**Because the writers have not given us exact information on what events took place during the time skip between seasons two and three, besides some brief dialogue between characters, I got curious. Of course, my curiosity led to ideas and these ideas blossomed into _this. _What this particular fanfic basically contains is my take on what happened over those weary, eight months (added with my OC of course) and the writing found here is all original content other than the TV show characters. I am really stretching my skills as a writer here and stepping out of my comfort zone, so this will only be a few chapters at most.**

**Please enjoy – feedback is great, too. :D**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

_"Losing our minds,_

_With cabin fever._

_Shut in confined spaces,_

_Lost in the dark."_

_~ Daughter: Winter_

* * *

Chapter 1: Late Night

It's late in the night.

Cold – the usual.

The wind presses up against the small house, screaming and howling. We found this place by accident and it is not ideal, but it's still a _place, _so we took it.

It has been a month since the farm, maybe two, but who's counting? I don't want to know how many days of hell we've endured because there is even more than that number in the future. Fall has been gone and winter is beginning, that's all there is to know.

I'm stretched out in a bathtub, loaded gun in lap, and my backpack is serving as a nice pillow. This bathroom isn't the best bedroom but it'll do for now. Lori got the couch because of her pregnancy and the others took the floor of a few different rooms; I just chose from what was left. There are no beds in this house.

It's dark inside the bathroom besides some moonlight pouring in from the window to my left. The air is bitter, wind still screaming, and my bones are hurting at their core. This weather makes me feel old – not that I am, for I'm only twelve; not even close. Actually, I'll be thirteen soon. When's my birthday again? Oh, God . . . February, yeah, that sounds about right. February 7th, 1998. So about another month or two . . .

The sink is dripping even though there is no electricity, plumbing – just some leaky pipes.

_Drip._ _Drop. Drip. Drop._

I stare at the door's dark silhouette sitting just out of the moon's reach. I remember closing it earlier.

_Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. The wind picks up something and it crashes down._

Winters in Georgia are never this mean. Then again, maybe they are. Maybe they always raged on like this, but we were too protected by the heaters and heavy coats to ever realize it. Now look at us – _at me –_ freezing under two shirts, a coat, jeans, combat boots, and fingerless gloves while lying in a bathtub. _A fucking bathtub._

Snow is usually a gift for us Georgia folks because we live down south where it doesn't like to touch; but if it comes this year, I don't – I don't really know how we're going to survive that. We all aren't used to snow-cold weather, which scares me.

Sighing, I lean back into the backpack; stare up at the ceiling in hopes to catch at least an hour of sleep, two or three if I'm lucky. I think about where we yesterday around this time. Me? Well, I was sleeping, managed to do some of that last night. We were in a barn, stayed there a couple days, and although I hate barns because of past experiences, I still dealt with it. Until this morning when Rick made the decision to head out and we jumped into the vehicles, kept going up to he swerved off the road at this place.

The bathroom door opens and I scold myself for not paying more attention. My gun is up but before my thumb can brush across the safety switch to turn it off, there is a guff voice,

"Just me," _Daryl. _I put the gun down.

"Thought you had watch," I say as he removes the crossbow. The dripping sink grabs his attention for a moment and he glances at the broken appliance.

Daryl sits down on the tile beside my makeshift bed, huffing, "T took over."

"Oh."

"You cold?"

He is wearing the poncho, a horse blanket we found in the barn's tack room. I can smell the horse scent from here, I like it. Reminds me of better days . . . "Always."

I hear Daryl sigh. He tosses something over the hard tub wall and it lands in my lap. I pick it up, moving it in the moonlight so I can see. _A beanie._ "Here," he says, "found it in the closet." The beanie is a cream color and I run a finger over the wool material; tell him "thanks" because that is what you're supposed to do. Sitting up, I position it over my messy brunette hair and red ears, my aching body protesting in the process – I feel a bit better.

Settling down on my back once more, I hear Daryl sniffle, "This poncho smells like damn horse ass."

My eyes close because this is better than being alone, I softly chuckle to myself.

And then I remember, "You ever gonna take me out hunting like you said?"

"Gotta get'cha a bow first, kid. Then we'll go out . . . and it'll all be good."

Bow usage is completely foreign to me but I've always wanted to learn how to hunt and track, Daryl knows. _Just in case . . . _"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

It gets quiet other than the wind and sink; I am used to them by now, though. Opening my eyes, there is one more nagging element I decide to share as I squint in the dark. Daryl is leant up against the side of the tub, his back to me. The dim moonlight shows he's staring at the sink. "Daryl?"

His gaze flickers away. "Hmm?"

"I don't like being alone."

A pause. "Me neither."

It's easy to push people away, maybe even too easy. Daryl and me – we've both done it. But after a while of being alone, lost in your own thoughts with nothing but yourself to talk to, the need to stay away becomes scary. I am afraid of being alone, always have been, but somehow that _need_ still lingers. Can't explain it, can't get rid of it, it's just always there; always will be.

Because running is so much easier than talking.

Daryl informs me that he has watch again soon, says I should sleep. _Should do a lot of things._

That sink should also shut up because it is driving him mad, I can tell.

But besides the sink, screaming wind, cold world, tired bones, and watch – Daryl is still in the same spot every time I wake up throughout the night and even when dawn hits.

He never leaves.

* * *

**Well, it's a start at least . . .**

**~ Rainy**


	2. Chapter 2: Snowflakes

**Reminder: this fanfic contains little snapshots of the winter months so chapter events may be spread out. This is not a full drawn-out fanfic but rather a filler.**

**Enjoy. :)**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 2: Snowflakes

Glenn is the first to fall.

It starts out with a sore throat one January day. At least Hershel claims that it is January, he's been counting, putting the pieces together – I don't count. Anyways, scratchy throats are not uncommon these bitter days so we push on; Glenn's says not to worry.

We sleep in the cars that night.

I take the green car with Carl and we both stretch out in the back. He leans on the right car door, I rest on the other, and our legs meet in the middle. People come and go from watch, the night is hazy – blobs of faces, conversations that I only mange to steal a few words from. I end up scrunching into a ball because turning on the heat in this vehicle would mean risking gas that we can't afford to lose.

Rick doesn't make an appearance – I'm awake for most of the night – and that's nothing new. Always in the shadows, always on high alert, always gone – sometimes I wish he was _here._

Carl is asleep most of the time, but when he's awake we have our little talks. The boy knows some of my story, a bit of the ugly truth where everything is actually ugly, even my scars. Each night we're together, I share a little more. He talks, too, yeah, but it isn't as bad. Carl tells me about the fights his parents would have, the yelling, the words said, the anger . . . He doesn't think they would have been together much longer if not for his dad's coma and the turn. Carl would talk to Shane a lot about things; the man was his best friend. Rick was not really home, Lori was sad most of the time. They tried to keep Carl sheltered but he still knew what was going on, of course he did. The boy had friends at school but they didn't understand, never could. Shane did, though, he was different back then.

In the morning, Glenn seems worse. He can barely talk, nose is all stuffed up. Lori states that her throat is achy and Rick decides we'll drive some more. Apparently, there is a small neighborhood many miles away, got to be, at least.

So we gather up our belongings, Daryl puts the motorcycle in the back of the pickup because it ran out of gas yesterday – too cold to ride anyways – and we head off on our broken hope.

* * *

People fall sick by the hours.

Glenn has a fever, Lori is coughing, and Hershel and Beth are sniffling.

The rest of us are okay – for now – but this virus is spreading like wildfire. Maybe it is because we're close together, or perhaps because we aren't the healthiest since there is never anything to eat and the world is always so cold. Whatever the reason, it is still concerning. Even for a twelve-year-old girl.

We come across a man and his two daughters on the road – _survivors_. The three of them are dressed in layers of clothing like us; the father is equipped with a gun. They all have backpacks and the girls look a few years younger than me, both have blonde hair. The youngest doesn't have a regular backpack like her older sister and dad, but rather a roller one. The wheels, however, are broken so she just lugs the used-to-be-pink backpack behind her.

Upon seeing us, the man perks up. He waves his arms, hope in his face, and shouts,

_"Hey!"_

I squeeze my eyes shut as Rick drives right on past without even slowing. I don't want to see their faces; it isn't the first time . . .

The brakes would have been slammed on months ago. Those people were just a few months too late.

They'll never know that, though.

* * *

The brakes are put to use for real right before we run out of gas many miles and minutes later.

Snow flurries slowly move down from the sky and as much as I want to be excited, catch snowflakes on my tongue, and touch the snow dust on the cars – I resist the urges. This place, this world, doesn't allow childish acts.

Rick has led us to a cabin; good a place as any, I suppose. It all runs together these days. A few walkers occupy the cabin but they are taken care of quickly. We move into the building, the frozen grass crunching under our feet as the others and I carry our stuff up the front lawn.

We have an old faded map of Georgia that was found in the silver pickup's glove box when my group had snagged the vehicle from a garage, and Rick lays it out on the hardwood floor. There is a bed in the back room and Lori goes to rest there. She says the baby's kicking something fierce and the sickness isn't doing much to help. I can't remember how many months along Lori is with the baby anymore . . . but she's definitely showing at least. Doesn't matter – five minutes later I hear her puking. Carol and Maggie go to help her.

A fireplace sits in the corner and we actually get a fire of some sorts started with the little chunks of firewood left and Daryl's matches. I sit with Carl against the wall; stare out the window at the very slow descent of snow. Rick, Daryl, T-dog, and Glenn gather around the map, say words I'm not interested enough in to listen to. Glenn looks paler than usual; his nose is all red, too. Beth and Hershel are huddled up close to the fire and it cracks as the flames eat away at the wood. I adjust the beanie on my head, pulling it down over my ears more. It is a little tattered but not too bad from the two months it has endured.

There is a drug store a few miles from here. It is almost dark, though, so we'll go in the morning – the others claim that they can hold on till then.

Rick goes outside to keep watch, tells everyone to stay put because he doesn't want anyone else to fall ill.

What he fails to understand, though, is that it is not the cold that is making us sick. The atmosphere is a contributor, sure, but it is not the reason the virus is spreading.

It is _us._

Maybe one day we'll just fall down with the snowflakes. All of us.

Can't say I would mind.

* * *

**I feel like I can relate to this chapter because at the moment I am actually ill.**

**~ Rainy**


	3. Chapter 3: Cold Run

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 3: Cold Run

The pharmacy ends up to be completely looted; the shelves are wiped clean, back storage room was even broken into. There is no medicine, no getting better – the only salvageable thing in the whole entire store is a beat up tissue box that will barely last two days, three if we're lucky. I hate false hope . . .

Two days later and the tissue box is empty. Carol, Maggie, and T-dog – even though he denies it – have joined the others in falling victim to the virus. People are coughing and sneezing and burning up and freezing and fighting raw throats. It's like the flu but without the throwing up. Lori only pukes often because of her pregnancy. I give my blanket up to Beth and pretend I don't shiver at night.

We stay in the cabin because things outside are slow, snow falls each day but not a lot. The road, yard, and cars have merely a sprinkle of white. Carl, Daryl, Rick, and I are the only healthy ones. Until time catches up and reality hits, of course.

Another day passes and things are worse. People aren't getting better or showing any signs of it either. Daryl goes out hunting because we ran out of cans of whatever-food-we-somehow-managed-to-find last night. When he returns, though, he carries two rabbits and a squirrel because the animals are hiding, and things seem _off._ He can try to ignore it as much as he wants to, but I know the truth.

_Daryl's getting sick._

And so is Rick by the looks of it.

It's just Carl and me now.

That night after a dinner of pretty much nothing, Rick goes out to patrol just like every other night. Daryl still takes watch by the window; too, because they're tough, that's what. And I think T-dog would join them if his eyes weren't so watery. Not Glenn – no – he and Lori are the worst off, sick as dogs.

Carl comes to me after I take my place in the corner. It's late, some people are already asleep. T-dog is . . . I can hear his awful snoring already starting up. My backpack is being a nice pillow and my beanie is pulled down over my eyes and ears because it's all I got. The boy nudges my leg with a boot and I respond without moving because my bones are achy.

_"Hmm?"_

"Remember that gas station we passed by on the way to this place? The Exxon?" He's whispering.

"No." I grumble into the backpack and I don't remember a gas station, much less an Exxon one. Car rides for me are usually spent daydreaming or sleeping.

"Well," Carl continues, "I do . . . And I was thinking, well, we should check it out. For – for medicine and stuff,"

My mind is saying _good for you_ because I'm beat, but my mouth – the part Carl hears – says another, "Are you asking me to sneak out with you?"

"I checked the map, five miles down the road."

Sighing, I roll over to face him. The beanie is pushed back. I hold at my arm. "Alright – help me up,"

So he does and then we slip out when Daryl and Rick aren't looking.

We're the only healthy ones, after all.

* * *

We tread lightly so our snowy tracks aren't too easily found. The gas station is a straight shot so the two of us follow the snow-blanketed road – stumbling along at times. Tonight the moon is out and bright – it is also starting to fade away, as the sky is not as heavily dark – and the extra light makes it easy to navigate. The street and surrounding area is clear of walkers. They're slow this time of year, anyway.

The snow is still coming down in flurries and our boots crunch under the white powder. It settles in my loose strands of hair not sheltered by the beanie, on my clothes, and even on my tongue as I stick it out to catch a snowflake. If I wasn't so tired and if this run wasn't so important, I would lie down and make a snow angel. Probably wouldn't be able to get up for a while, though.

After the cabin is completely out of sight where it sits in the shadows of trees, the road inclines, and we slide down a little hill. I tried sledding with the neighborhood kids once when we got a snowstorm – a rare thing – but it didn't work out too well because the hill wasn't steep enough and Asher broke our makeshift sled by slamming into a fence.

Carl talks at the bottom of the hill, "I went snow tubing in Virginia once."

_Snow tubing? Virginia?_ "What?" disbelief takes over my tone, "You're kidding . . ."

He shakes his head. "No, no I'm serious. My mom's brother took us two years ago; spent a few days up there. It was awesome."

"Your mom has a brother?" This is new.

"Yeah. His name's Chase, pretty cool guy."

"Oh . . . My mom had a brother, too; so I've heard. His name was, um – oh, God, what was it again – " I pause, look up at sky. It was something with an R, something with an R . . . _"Rory!_ Yeah, that sounds about right. Rory."

Carl just nods along. These people are probably all dead now. Look at us; telling ghost stories.

"So how was it up there? In Virginia?" I ask because I am beyond curious.

"It was . . . _cold_. Lots of mountains, kind of in the middle of nowhere," He looks to me. "You'd like it."

I shrug. Georgia is my home.

Reaching down, I scoop up a batch of snow – after making sure it is not yellow of course, don't want piss snow. I have my gloves on so only my fingers – the exposed part – feel the chilling sensation, the limbs turning pink.

Plopping a bit of snow in my mouth, I scrunch my face up because it's cold on my teeth. Carl watches, I speak, "You wanna know what I miss? _Snowballs."_ I chew on the rest of the snow, in which it melts in my mouth, and wipe my cold hands off on my snow dusted jeans. "I lived next to like this trailer park or whatever, and every summer a couple guys would go down to the local Piggly Wiggly to get some ice and food coloring. This guy – his name was Warren – he'd make these really good homemade snowballs. Everyone who lived in the trailer park or outside of it got them free. The rich people had to pay. It was great."

"Yeah, we had a place like that around where I lived." Carl says. He probably lived in a big house, nice neighborhood, too. The snowball stand probably had an air conditioned inside to it, more flavors than just two, and the boy was probably one of those rich folks we used to dislike so much at the trailer park.

"Small world," I state. Moving closer, I brush the snow off of his hat. "Got some snow dust on your hat, Sheriff,"

He grabs a piece of my hair and slides some snow out of the stiff strand. "You have it all in your hair."

"Well, I don't have an authority to maintain."

Carl makes a "_pfft" _sound because we both know the hat means nothing, but I still like to play.

Sure, I miss my old friends but Carl is just as good.

* * *

The destination is reached fifteen minutes later when an abandoned Exxon gas station comes into view. I'll be damn . . . Carl was actually right. The sky has slowly started to turn from black to grey. Funny who you never see the sky change, it just _does. _Group members are probably realizing we are gone right about now.

There's a lone walker standing by an empty, snow-covered car but the rest of the area looks clear enough. I would normally leave the geek be because it's slow and not paying attention, but one way or another, it's going to hear us whether we're out here or not. My weaponry contains a knife and a pistol – no silencer. I'm still waiting for that crossbow and hunting lessons from Daryl, he says one day we'll go out. I think he wants to wait until things get better. It doesn't look like that is happening anytime soon, though.

Carl's gun, however, does have a silencer. The end of a baseball bat was on put on there a few weeks back. His aim isn't too shabby, so I nudge him – nod – and he goes up to the freak and shoots it in the back of the head after hesitating for a minute. It barely snarls.

We're both still new to this killing thing.

Trash litters the ground, but neither of us knows where it is until a boot hits something and a cloud of snow rises up. There's a breeze, but it isn't too bad or sharp yet. The gas pumps are pretty much frozen; vehicles sitting around are being eaten by the snow. Looking up, my eyes lock onto the sign that lists off the gas prices. Most of the letters are gone or hanging on a by a thread, banging in the breeze, but the top price is a different case. In the "UNLEADED" section – whatever that means – the numbers have been messed with. There's an upside down four, three, a seven, and another seven. It spells out "HELL". Someone moved the letters that way and they about got it right.

Carl sees where I'm looking, glances up, and then our eyes meet for a second.

"C'mon," I say, "let's move."

We have to get medicine. Cough drops, a thermometer, or even another tissue box will do, too.

For these people have started to become a family to me, whether I like it or not.

* * *

**This chapter was supposed to go one way but it just went another.**

**It became more of a bonding chapter.**

**Eh.**

**~ Rainy**


	4. Chapter 4: Pinky Promise

**I struggled with this immensely.**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 4: Pinky Promise

Inside the gas station is quiet.

Outside is a different story, though.

The sky is grey and cloudy as snow tumbles down from it. Wind blows, making branches on trees bounce and the overgrown shrubs hanging off a rotting fence across the street shake. It's cold and both Carl and I's breath are visible in this forgotten place. Pulling the beanie closer to my skin, I know we're going to have to be quick. In and out, grab the necessities – it is doable. It's gotta be.

Something – a can, perhaps – falls to the floor and the echoing clank catches our attention. Whirling around from the store's front window, the two of us examine the area. Cracked tile, scattered trash, damp floor – that is the bottom. My eyes then pan upwards and I take in the rest: mostly bare shelves, crooked signs, hanging ceiling tiles, and darkness – always darkness. Darkness is lurking in the back . . . where the noise came from.

It is a silent agreement between partners. Actions of meeting eyes and flicking heads are what get us going. I take the right, he takes the left; we'll meet in the middle. My right hand holds the ready gun, left hand grips my knife handle. I am poised and my heart is in my ears as I weave through what's left of aisles and step over numerous flattened boxes and papers and glass and objects – reminders of what was. They forever stick around like the darkness.

My arms shake and my breath is shallow. It doesn't matter if a walker or an animal or a person or even nothing at all is back here – I have to be ready. We have had our fair share of close calls so far this winter. Group members falling down an icy hill while hungry walkers welcomed them at the bottom, getting ambushed by a small band of survivors, Lori almost being bitten during the passing of a herd – we've been through it all, I've seen most of what this world has left to give. Those monsters aren't alive anymore.

Rushing around a corner, I come across a lost walker. It seems human-like for a moment, so I pause, but then it groans, and I _know._ I hate when they play games and I swallow as the gun is shoved back into my waistband. The biter is unaware of my presence, turned the other way with its matted, dirty blonde hair and hunched back facing my way. This one used to be a girl; gas station worker, too, judging by the Exxon vest hanging down from its shoulders, the left one has a bite.

I have the upper hand here and the decision to creep forward is made. Slowly, quietly, listening, watching . . . Another geek emerges from the depths of darkness, the brim of Carl's sheriff's hat does, too, but my mind is made up. Grabbing the walker by the hair, I yank. It barely has time to hiss before a blade is tucked beneath layers of skin and strands of hair, and I'm twisting. Movement stills. I release the limp body and it hits the ground with a thud. My nostrils pick up on blood and yeah, it's there. It's there in a long string from the skull to me. The crimson liquid drips, drops, and then nothing – nothing but a smothering buzz that fills my eardrums because it can never be truly quiet.

In the back of my head, located much where I stabbed the walker, I feel like I should care that another body just hit the floor and I can't hear Carl anymore and killing is still fairly new and the fact that snow is piling up outside by each breath we take, but I don't.

I had a mindset. I had a job, a promise . . .

And I intend to keep my promises. I'm not like Anna – never again –

A hand – a hand on my arm. I pull away.

_Carl._ It's okay now, the job is done. We can nod, we can be _us. _Who are we? Survivors at best.

There's a bang from outside.

"Wind's picking up," I sigh, moving to look at the remains of supplies. "we're gonna have to be quick. Medicine, food, anything that looks useful – grab it. But we need medicine the most."

There. The game plan, it's laid out across the table. I have watched the adults before, observed how they prepare for runs. We – Carl and I – we can do it, too.

Carl takes in my plan, agrees, "Okay. I kind of forgot bags, though."

Backpacks – our backpacks. We left them in the cabin. "Really . . ."

"Sorry, I couldn't stand to be in there anymore – hear another cough, see my mom puke,"

"Yeah, yeah – " I rush out the words, thoughts going back to the sick. We are the only ones untouched, but that isn't how it is supposed to go, is it? Oh no . . . just another wicked game played by the one who is controlling this hellhole.

"Besides, I went past the registers. They have bags here."

Our eyes connect and the next step goes without saying. Carl being my partner may be something still fairly new, but we are not dumb. It's what Rick or Daryl or T-dog or Glenn would do.

So it happens, happens as the wind becomes the background noise, howling like the world is burning down to a crisp. I have to wake up more. Time is running out so I browse through the nearest aisle while Carl gets the pathetic plastic bags marked with the word _Exxon. _Something light within the darkest depths of the floor catches my eye. Kneeling down to get a better look, I pick up the source. The leather of the right fingerless glove cradles the object and my fingers curl slightly inwards.

It is a cigarette.

The lightness is the white paper the tobacco product is wrapped in. _Dad _smoked. He'd do it out in the backyard, or on the porch, a lot in Old Blue – God, I miss that truck . . . He never smoked in the house, though, at least until after _Mom _– she never had smoky breath. Except that one night after the yelling died down and the screen door slammed I came out of my room to find Mom sitting at the kitchen table. Her cheeks were tear-stained and a smoking cigar rested between her fingers. She broke her own rules.

I roll the cigarette between my thumb and forefinger, and the pounding gusts of wind hitting the store seem to fade off. My thoughts wander, go to a place.

But then they come running back because a scream has filled the empty space.

The cigarette falls.

_Carl._

A gun replaces it – I move, go, go, go!

_Carl, Carl, Carl, Carl . . ._

My legs end their journey about the time I round the counter where the register is located. I stop thinking as well about the time my green eyes land on a walker without legs – a crawler – holding on to a familiar boy.

The gun jumps in my hands before I even know I pulled the trigger. A ringing buzz travels to my ears and I can't remember switching the safety off. But I must of had somewhere along the line because the crawler has gone still, its body rolled into itself. My hands are shaking. The gun falls, but I don't stop shaking or move my arms; not until the ringing goes away.

Carl's eyes are wide as they lock onto my form with this _look. _All of the feeling comes back, crashing over me like a tidal wave.

"Shit," I curse, arms falling limply down to my sides. They're less shaky now. I move closer, his hat is on the tile beside him, upside down now, and I want to reach out to him, to help, but I _can't. Just can't._

"I'm fine." he says quick and hurriedly. His eyes are still wide.

I snap to the body – dead body – and scan over its legs that are all guts and blood from the knee down. Then I go to the thing's fingernails, mouth – "It didn't get you – "

_"No."_ interrupts Carl. "I – I'm fine, okay, really . . . No bites. No scratches. I promise," He holds out a shaky pinky. "Pinky promise."

Sighing, I step forward to take his pinky in mine. Squeeze, "You scared the hell out of me."

"Do you think they heard . . ." The walkers, the gunshot, the ringing, the noise –

But the wind.

"I – I don't know."

We wait until it is unbearable. I'd guess it to be a good minute or two, but in that time we could have been gathering supplies, searching for medicine – God, we're desperate. So when nothing happens in those one or two minutes, Carl and I get right to it. The two of us have worked together before, keeping watch here and there, but nothing quite like _this_. But _this_ is okay because we can read each other, a look or a nod will do. Carl is someone I have allowed to hold the title of my friend, which is something I do not take lightly. He gets it, though, knows we aren't just partners. I see it flicker in his eyes every late night talk we have as his father walks the perimeter and the others sleep. It's there every time I call him _Sheriff _or we have those rare _kid_ moments. Yep; that's us.

We're kids who can't be kids.

The gas station has a very small stash of cans that we wipe out. There are bits and pieces of candy here and there, it's obvious that this place has been broken into and looted already. No weapons, no ammunition, no medicine . . . _yet. _Carl manages to snag a tissue box with the really cheap tissues inside and when I come across what's left of a bag of Halls cough drops, my heart speeds up. We're close.

Every nook and cranny of this gas station is to be searched and I find myself back behind the counter with the dead crawler because Carl won't. The cash register has been busted open, money and coins litter the damp tile. Funny how people thought money would actually still mean something when everything went down, money can't buy you another breath these days. The drawers I search through are practically empty. A ball of lint, a pencil . . . _useless._ The bottom drawer, however, is locked. It is bigger than the rest, too.

Carl gains my attention by tapping on the counter. He holds up a pack of something. "Found matches."

I nod, eyes going back to the task at hand. "This drawer is locked, could have medicine."

The boy chews on his lip for a second, thinks, and then points to the discarded body. "Maybe he has the key."

Oh. So we are calling it a _him _now.

Carl isn't wrong, though. The walker is not an outsider, but rather a gas station worker just like the woman I took down earlier. They must of locked themselves up in here, considering the fact we had to pretty much rip the door's hinges off to enter. And I try not too much about what else happened to these lifeless souls as I roll the legless body over and begin rummaging through pockets. Vest and shirt pockets – nothing. But then my fingers hit something in the left pants pocket. I pull it out; it feels light and metal, sharp around the edges.

A key.

_The key._

My eyes widen for a good reason for once and I exchange a happy glance with my friend. Rushing back over to the drawer, it unlocks with a click, and I pull it out. There is no gun or ammo or any weapons at all.

But there is a box.

I pick it up, hold it to my forehead. I could cry.

_A first aid kit._

* * *

It's hard to leave hell when you can't see what's in front of you.

Or the sign itself.

The snowstorm seemed to come out of nowhere even though we witnessed the creation. Snowstorms take time to develop and this is _Georgia_ – South where there is suffocating heat and hungry mosquitoes. We aren't up in the mountains or Virginia where Carl went snow tubing.

Georgia. Freaking Georgia.

Georgia is what I know.

Can't recognize it now, though.

Snow is pouring down like rain and wind stings your skin. We can't leave if we tried.

"Do you think they'll come looking?" Carl asks as we stare out the front of the store, the windowed part. We both have Exxon bags digging into our fingers. I don't even want to think about how Rick or Daryl is feeling right now; Lori, too. They could kill us.

"No tracks to look for." I reply and it's the truth.

What is also the truth is that we are stuck in a dark gas station with the medicine our people so desperately need.

* * *

The two of us sit with our backs to a still-standing shelf, facing the window because as soon as the time is right, we're gone. It gets dark quicker than I have time to process. We dump dollar bills into a trashcan and Carl throws in a lit match from his pack. Things seem still. I watch the snow fall, wind blow, and flames eat away at the paper. The heat feels nice.

Carl breaks the silence, "My dad told me it was illegal to burn money."

I forget Rick is former cop sometimes, that the hat Carl always wears was once his father's. Nonetheless, I shrug at the boy's statement. "Sue me."

He snorts but it is light and breathy. A crackle sounds from the fire. Watching money burn is like watching the world burn, the old one, at least. "Thanks, for – for earlier."

"Your dad and the others would have done the same." I like to think that.

"But it was a bullet."

"I made it count."

There is some more quiet. His stomach growls.

I reach into my bag.

Carl stops me, "No, I don't want you to – "

We can't risk using any of our gathered supplies, I know.

I pull out two Snickers' bars. "They were kind of for me," I hand one off to Carl. "but I can share."

He grins, eyes widening. "Where did you even find this?" The boy rips open the wrapper, eyes closing as he takes a bite of the chocolate, "Oh my God . . . I can't even remember the last time I had one of these."

I watch him with a smile, an actual smile. "You're welcome, Sheriff."

I ask him if he likes Big Cat's, which he does, so we nibble on chocolate, watching the storm rage on until the money is done burning.

* * *

Day one of being stuck is spent waiting. We took turns the night before watching the snow but it never stopped, not even for a second. The bathroom is the way back corner because we can't go outside. Neither Carl nor I eat anything, whatever we can find is burned in the trashcan for warmth.

Nobody comes looking. Not even a walker.

Day two we sharpen knives. Carl says he misses video games and his friends. He had this one that was lactose intolerance; Lori bought special milk when Carl would have him over. My friends got me in trouble most of the time and Payton was someone I was kind of forced to hang out with, so I do not talk about that. I didn't have video games, so can't miss something you never had. I tell Carl I miss the woods and sunshine – hunting.

_It has to be something from before the turn_, he replies because Carl knows I didn't know how to track before Daryl.

Okay. Fine. So I think some more and say that I miss watching Payton's pony, Sammie, run around in his pasture. I also miss ACDC. My dad had their CD, _Back in Black, _and it was killer.

We end up giving in and sharing a can of ravioli that night. But just one.

Day three . . . day three is the worst.

Carl wakes me up coughing. He coughs and coughs and coughs until he pukes. His throat is so sore he can barely talk. It feels like my fault that he is sick even though I did nothing to influence it. I could have said no, could have stayed at the cabin . . .

But we have medicine now.

He refuses to take any medicine and I almost chew my fingers off because I worry. Carl could die and we're all infected and if he were to – I couldn't, I wouldn't . . . _Not him._

The fever almost gives me a heart attack. And I sit with my gun in my hand all night, watching him instead of the snow, because his clogged nose makes strange noises while he sleeps. I'm scared. I don't build a fire because of his fever and I am sweating from nerves in this frigid air.

Day four we can't wait anymore, there is no more time. It's like that big digital clock in the CDC with its scary, fast-moving red digits.

We have to go.

I can't feel a thing. The snow is up to our thighs. My exposed fingers from my finger-less gloves grip the bags, all eyes stay on the staggering Carl as he leads. It's hard to see but we push on anyways. Carl hits a gas pump, a car – feeling around; we eventually find the road, sliding down the small bank.

Carl points, covering his mouth as he coughs, "Straight . . . ahead . . ." he croaks out.

The two of us keep going. Our heads are bowed because of the snow. Carl holds his hat; I make sure not to lose the bags. I run into something, a solid body colliding with my own.

But it isn't Carl.

A walker, yes, _a walker. _It was just standing around and I ran into it. _Of course. _The thing registers me as food and we both fall back into the deep snow. Rolling around, I try to keep its teeth and claws away from me, but there is still some fight left in this one. It is about to close in on my neck and this is a stupid way to die, pinned down in two feet of snow.

And something must agree because the walker stills, body falling slack onto mine. A blade is sticking out of the back of its head and here is barely-holding-on Carl. He rolls it off of me and we steady each other as I stand.

"Everything is spinning." he tells me in barely a whisper. I start to panic and we only get about ten more feet down the road before he collapses. My friend is burning as I try to pull him back up, wake him up – nothing.

All I get is his pinky wrapping around mine.

_Pinky promise._

Quick thinking. Quick thinking has me tying the bags to my belt lop, yanking him to his feet, making sure the hat is on steady, and then beginning to walk him down the road I can't even see.

I can't feel anything but the heat of his pinky in mine.

Nothing seems to really matter. I just go. The snow isn't cold, the wind doesn't sting, and I don't care that I lost my beanie some time ago in all of this snow. I walk until my body can't take being weighed down anymore. Everything goes down when the cabin comes into sight. My eyes can barely make it out but it is still there. I stay on the ground, count to ten.

And then my broken body continues.

I end up dragging Carl through the snow the rest of the way. He's completely out of it. The door opens and I fall through it, still linked with the other breathing body.

My feeling doesn't come back until my back hits the floor, lungs struggling to claim air.


	5. Chapter 5: Dad

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 5: Dad

What come next are waves of consciousness crashing down upon me. When I'm there, the lines are blurry. It feels like a dream, like rolling with the waves as I float around the voices and figures of other people. Other times, I am out of it or can't remember, one of the two.

I feel old. My body is crumbling from the inside out. When Jim was bit, cooped up in the RV, he muttered something about his bones being made of glass. The waves keep coming, threatening to shatter my bones made of glass, and they come in different sensations.

_Dizziness. Numbness. Emptiness. Tiredness. Coldness. Warmth. Hunger. Falling. Blank. Nothing._

There's more but it isn't worth picking apart the pieces, untying the knots. I stay wound up tight until the waves end their journey and I stop drowning to wash up on shore. And when I decide to come back into the world of the living, my back is still touching the wooden, cabin floor. There are people, but the wheels found in my head do not turn to register them because all I can focus on is the churning deep in my stomach.

I go to stand but my legs are mean. So I don't rise. I scramble to an opening on all fours. There are arms and perhaps I said: that like my legs, there is something mean within in me I need to get out – because the arms are guiding inside of trying to pull me back. When you're drowning, water gets in your lungs and you can't breath – oxygen won't reach me now, won't settle long enough for me to take it.

Snow stings my flesh in a bitter-cold way and a slapping wind throws my hair away from me. And all of the fluid built up from being tossed back and forth between waves, all of the bad stuff, tumbles out, then. It all is released as I puke into the snow, barely off of the cabin's rickety porch. I still can't breathe – lungs and stomach clenching. It feels like I'm dying and maybe time's finally up. My thoughts go back to that mocking digital clock counting down in the CDC and then it's over, and I'm rolling over in the snow, the substance coating my clothes.

The arms come back. One snakes under my knees, bending them, and the other find my shoulders. I curl into myself as I'm lifted. The floor greets me once more but I'm propped up by a warm body this time instead of lying flat.

I breathe, because that is what I can do now; the smell of old leather fills my nostrils. My ears listen to the heartbeat of the other.

_Home._

* * *

My face twitches as I watch Daryl pour the medicine into the short cup. The liquid is a darker shade of red and Glenn spent all day out searching for hope since the storm cleared up mostly; this is supposed to help with whatever the hell is wrong with me. I have the flu, that's what, and the past day or days – I don't keep count anymore – have been spent periodically vomiting, going through chills and fevers, coughing, sneezing, aching, fighting to breathe, and struggling to swallow. The others seem better; I keep my eye on Carl. Me? Well, I guess I took a step forward today. Haven't puked in a bit . . .

Daryl's been around. He still hunts, yeah, but he comes back sooner. Rick does not take as many laps around the property anymore. Hershel and the rest watch from across the room, and when it gets bad, they hover. I hate when they do because I don't want their pity, but I keep quiet. _Quiet. _We've become friends as this virus runs its course. Outside seems darker. I try not to look out the window.

The cup is getting fuller and fuller by the second and I curl my lip in. Both my eyes and stomach don't like the look of it. "Do you think that's enough?" my voice cracks out to Daryl, I cough.

Daryl stops pouring and the medicine isn't filling the whole cup, but it is sort of close. I don't like "sort-of's". "It's supposed to be up to the brim," Daryl says, eyeing his work. He then flicks his attention to me. "But you don't tip the scale at one-hundred."

My fingers curl around the fabric of the three thin blankets I'm under as I grip them. He's talking about how I am underweight, how some of my ribs kind of poke out and my body is too pale for its own good. I don't even really get hungry anymore, like really, really hungry. My stomach certainly won't allow me to eat now.

He hands me the medicine cup and I stare down the liquid. "I'm just gonna throw it up."

"And I'll hold your hair if you do." He gestures to the cup. "Drink up."

So I listen and holding my nose so I can't smell it, I gulp down the substance. It tastes bitter, cold on my throat, and I want to spit it up, but I resist the urge. I cough a bit, shake my head even though I'm already dizzy, and then wipe my mouth. My body falls slack against the solid wall as I hand the cup off to Daryl. When I try to reach for the canteen, Daryl says _no_ because the medicine needs to coat my throat for a bit – Hershel told him that.

Daryl's been asking the vet a lot of questions lately.

A silence settles between us like a wall. And it keeps building higher and higher until Daryl's voice removes a brick, "Why'd . . . why'd you and Carl leave?"

I look to him, his eyes are down. He knows why, knows damn well about the first aid kit. But there's oblivion _– a state of unknowing _– because we're kids and we didn't inform a soul and we were gone for days and Carl could have died and I could have died and we could have been lost forever. Like Sophia. Only thing left of her was a mindless shell. She was never actually really _found – _alive, breathing – no.

"We needed to, the others couldn't."

"Or _wanted." _he grumbles at the floor.

It feels like one of the bricks Daryl removed from the wall has hit me in the stomach, then. I swallow, hard. "No . . . _needed."_

The floor is abandoned from Daryl's vision as his eyes lift, boring into my own. "I couldn't look with the snow,_"_

There's a twitch of guilt before my stomach reminds me, and I chug down some water. I let it sit for a second. _Nope._

No words need to be exchanged, he knows. It has become a routine about now. Daryl grabs the trash can, reaches for my hair, and then it seems like I'm dying once more from the choking feeling. Tears sting my eyes and the acid taste in my throat burns. Not much comes up this time because I did not eat, but the medicine was part of it for sure. And when the bad stuff is out and I can catch my breath again, my back returns to the wall. Huffing, my eyes go to the beams stretched across the ceiling. I feel like screaming and crying and breaking down, but there is no strength and the tears rolling down my cheeks are the leftovers from puking.

I sip on some water when I'm able. Daryl watches. I talk to him between swallows and deep breaths, "I knew you were . . . sick . . . And you can wear . . . the mask . . . But what happens . . . when someone else . . . can see . . . right through . . . it?"

He goes quiet. The stillness isn't the bad kind, nor the good. It is the thinking stillness, a moment to let words travel through your ears, absorb into your brain, and process through those turning wheels. All of this happens in seconds that barely graze a minute, though, so the pause is brief. Not enough room to rebuild the wall.

Daryl pushes off the real wall and climbs to his feet. I watch as he suppresses a groan, for his face gets twisted up for a second. Winter has made us all stiff. Pressing the back part of his hand on my forehead, I fight the urge to keep the cool relief there. The man slings the crossbow over a shoulder because there is always that chance, snatches up the trash can filled with rejected help the medicine tried to provide. His mouth moves and mutters of how he'll _be back _tumble out. And then he's gone, a coldness my boiling body can't feel filling the empty space.

I conclude that Daryl told me he would return so he could confirm it within himself, shove the actions of me sneaking out further down my frozen throat. Words weren't needed but he wanted them. I wouldn't have cared if they were absent, like Carl and I that morning. I know I scared the shit out of Daryl. When I was gazing up at the ceiling containing a maze of wood after my back collided with the floor, familiar faces poked their way into my line of vision, relief pasted on each one. Carl was slowly untangled from me and Lori held him close while she cried tears that probably should have been heavier.

_I'm sorry._

A short figure pads into the room. I keep my eyes down low because maybe if I pretend he's not here, he'll pretend he never entered. All of these silly games . . .

Too bad we're too old for that.

Carl's hair is sticking out in strange angles, clothes are wrinkled. No hat today. He's still mildly sick but not bad like me. His eyes do a sweep of my form huddled against the farthest wall in a nest of blankets.

I nod.

He nods.

Bye, Sheriff.

Footsteps fade away.

In comes Daryl with the now emptied trash can and a wad of snow. His crossbow clangs as he approaches, connecting with his shoulder blades after every step. Dropping the trash can on the floor, he holds out the snow that has been crushed into a tight ball. I take it and it feels nice in my palm.

"Put it on your forehead," Daryl instructs, "It ain't much but I guess will do for now."

Nodding, I press the ball of snow to my head; reminds me of Warren's snowballs I was telling Carl about. For some minutes that a clock powered by a still working generator somewhere counts, it doesn't feel like getting burned away. But after the short period of _tick-tocks, _a headache arises from the melting powder, and chills shaking my bones at their core decide to tag along for the ride.

My friend discards the snow, touches my forehead again. "Fever died down a bit."

Is that so? _Huh._

A bad silence swoops in and I start thinking of dying as my body slightly shakes. Dr. Jenner's voice rings through, as many often do in times like this: _This is our extinction event._

I've been starting to think about maybe when all of this happened, no one was supposed to make it out still kicking. There were bombs dropped, riots, the government collapsed, every big city became overrun – BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. Blows and blows and blows hit. So I guess then God – if he is for real – cracked his knuckles and sat back to watch the shit show begin because we could not be taken down. I wonder if he laughs at us, if this is punishment.

If you keep on living and nothing happens, what does it all mean? There has to be a point, there has to be a reason we made it, there has to be light at the end of the tunnel – What? We just keep doing this to the day the clock is too tired to tick anymore? _Dammit._

_Count to ten._

My eyes drift to the window.

_One._

Snowflakes are falling in their slow motions, like a slideshow.

_Two._

The sky is gray.

_Three._

Lifeless.

_Four._

I could be dying.

_Five._

Don't even know it.

_Six._

"When you're better, we can go huntin'."

_Seven._

"Okay."

_Eight._

"You good now?"

_Nine._

A smile twitches over my lips.

_Ten._

"Good."

* * *

Later on, we try the medicine again, but a smaller amount.

It stays down this time around.

Daryl doesn't leave. Just wordlessly sits by my side as he's been. I slip into a state of drowsiness.

It was a March night in 2003 – I was five. A cold decided to strike and it was just Dad and me because Mom was working a late shift. This was before the beer bottles were out on display and the house smelled of stale cigarettes. My dad gave me cough medicine, but it was the good kind that tasted like grape. We watched a bit of Blue's Clues and then he carried me to bed. Dad wore this fruity cologne, it smelled nice. However, I couldn't sleep; I was afraid that my stuffy nose would make me stop breathing, or a monster would come and get me. So he stayed, promised he would make sure there was still a pulse and if there were any monsters, he'd scare them away.

_Goodnight, sunshine._

I feel the dead weight of my form sliding and suddenly a warm body cushions it. A hum escapes me and then,

"Night, Dad."

* * *

**So how do you guys like this little filler so far?**

**There's probably only going to be one more chapter before I wrap it up.**

**~ Rainy**


	6. Chapter 6: Denouement

**Time to finish this up.**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

_"Winter come,_

_Winter crush all of the things that I once had."_

_~ Daughter: Winter_

* * *

Chapter 6: Denouement

It's quiet during winter because everything has been stripped down and weakened. The trees' leaves have fallen, most animals and bugs are hiding, and the humidity has been swept right from the air. What is left are skeletons of vegetation and a bitter bite reminding you you're still alive. There's no black, there's no white – just grey. Just tired, old grey.

When sound does reach your eardrums, however, the heart located in your chest tightens; pounds a little more than usual. Right now those sounds consist of crows calling to one another and dead leaf carcasses crunching under weight. Daryl and I are walking through what remains of the woods behind the cabin. The snow is gone and so is the flu – the moment they melted away Daryl held up his end of the bargain. It was a promise, really, but that concept and I aren't friends. Old acquaintances with a grudge in between, though? That sounds about right. I only pinky promised Carl because those types of promises are more real. I had a hold on him and was not planning on letting go.

And I didn't.

A new weight is settling in my arms as I walk, trailing behind Daryl's form. _His crossbow. _He told me I would get a bow – probably so I wouldn't have had to touch his – but yet, there he was: thrusting the weapon into my grip seconds after the cabin door shut. It's heavy and I definitely feel it, but nothing I can't handle.

Daryl lowly whistles to find my attention that was actually never lost. We crouch down in the leaves and I can see his breath flowing out in puffy clumps as he speaks, "Whaddya see?"

I scoot forward, steadying myself so I do not fall over from the crossbow. Amongst the dead leaves there are broken and sunken-in ones, almost as if they've been branded. No owner is around to claim them, though, and then I think about the crunching we've made out here so far. The noise – it was not from snacking on a bag of potato chips – God, I haven't had those in forever – but rather _walking. _Yes. Walking.

It clicks.

"There's tracks here," I say, staring down the evidence. "Too big to be a squirrel or deer, though," Looking up, we meet eyes and mine get a little wide. "_A person."_

"Alright . . ." Daryl breathes, nodding along to make it good. Guess I saw what he wanted me to see. "Anythin' 'bout this person?"

I bite down on my lip, sucking on it – go back to the tracks left by a human. The markings, well, they're all over the place; staggering and inconsistent. Like a drunken fool leaving a bar, like –

This person was not drunk; doesn't even have a family to stumble back to, at least that they can remember anyway. This person is not even a person, and it may still have a job and carry a human body, but don't let appearances fool you. Some things cannot be helped; some things are too far gone. And for that, we are forced to put them out of their misery because they swung first after all.

_"It's a walker." _I confirm and his mouth twitches out of pride, which just brings back a whole other memory I wish I could forget.

Standing, Daryl moves forward and I go to take a step, but I'm weighed down by the crossbow – or the memory . . . But the crossbow is out in the open while the memory is tucked away.

My fingers crush the weapon but it won't crumble. It's hollow, like that mask we always wear. I speak to Daryl's back, his angel wing vest because it's easier to look at, "What I said a while back, I didn't mean it."

He stops, the vest clinging to his skin more as he stiffens. And what did I say to him? _Dad. _It was a stupid slip of the tongue but I hate myself for it.

And Daryl is well aware of the discomfort lodged between us, well aware of the _word._ Hell, it was one of the last I spoke before I just let winter win. I don't think he knows about that, though. Things were quiet.

He turns, slightly, "It's alright." The forgiving blue orbs of his eyes are there but I don't believe him. I'm awaiting the blows, waiting for the softness to disappear with a snap.

Nothing happens. I don't like it.

"But it's not, Daryl." I inform him because there has to be more here. _"It's not." _I watch his body sink. He huffs and fully turns. "I know he's dead,_ I know_. It's just – " Pausing, I swipe my nose with a jacket sleeve, switching the crossbow between hands. It's dry out here and the runny nose is merely a reminder of the darkness. They're everywhere. "I'd rather not remember it."

Daryl's eyes flick down and then bounce back up. "I shot my dad. He was bit."

"Did it hurt?"

"Didn't feel a thing . . . We were up huntin'; heard the stories on the news, but they were just stories." He shuffles and I watch as his hand reaches for the crossbow strap, comes up with nothing, and falls back down in defeat. "'Til they weren't. I took the gun from my uncle, pulled the trigger – we left. Turns out he was bit, too," He sighs. "Was just Merle and me for a while. We ended up gettin' stuck on 85."

"So did we." I pitch in, voice hollow and worn. The army evacuated everyone and then left us out to dry on some overcrowded slab of concrete. I remember that night, though; when the bombs dropped. "My dad left me in the truck so he could scope out the area with this other guy traveling with us. The people around were loud, shoving each other and stealing things from other cars. He handed me the keys and before he went off, he said to push the panic button if anything happened." A slight breeze tosses my hair into my face and I tuck it behind an ear. Daryl is watching me and my eyes are on him without truly taking his form in. It's like the two of us are swapping war stories; just ours aren't very glorious. "So I kept my thumb on the button because I was making up just about every bad scenario I could. But in the end, it didn't even matter . . . because when those bombs were dropped on Atlanta, the alarm went off anyways."

A moment of silence – _remembrance. _More wind, more leaves skidding across the dull forest floor, more crows talking –

Daryl states, "Yeah, I 'member that."

"Strange how it used to matter . . ." Now it feels like next to nothing.

In the next brief pause, a red squirrel scampers out from the underbrush made of sticks. It is the only splash of color in all of this grey and the two of us – Daryl and me – we watch for the seconds we're given; until it scurries over to a tree, stops, and begins scrubbing its face. Daryl motions for me to advance forward and I do, all slow and lowered down like I have seen him do many times before. I watch my feet and I watch the squirrel. The animal stalls and I halt with it. I have a better look at it since venturing closer, and its coat appears less red, bruised in brown instead of fiery red. The squirrel's nose is twitching back and forth – alive. _Real._

And somehow, I think it knows of an end time as the crossbow's weight digs into my callused fingers. Wide-eyed, it sees right through me from where I stand eyeing the creature merely yards away.

Daryl is to my left, pushed off to the side and halfway behind a tree. I don't look at him but I feel his presence. Sometimes, a state of just_ being _works.

"He knows somethin's up," I comment, tone lowered like my stance. The words swirl out into the air like smoke from a toxic cigarette.

Daryl answers with the same type of voice I used, "Gotta be quick, then," He begins adjusting my stance but every bone in me locks up in return. I don't mean to but it is a nasty habit, one that can only be broken with time. And when do we ever get granted that? My eyes have not retreated from the task like the rest of me, though, and they still find interest in the squirrel basking in its final moments of life. At least it has time . . .

I start thinking about how I can't do this, how you shouldn't rip the breath out of one's lungs because we fight every day to stay afloat. And then I remember how many animals I've eaten out on the road, and it doesn't matter anymore. I release a breath and sink down, even though that voice in my ear has been telling me to do so for roughly half a minute now. It could be real or it could be just _there. _When I was sick, I heard a lot of voices . . . they always wanted something from me. At first, I blocked them out, but I later found myself spending nights listening to them, back against the wall. I couldn't move to complete any of the tasks they demanded, for I was too sick to move, but I listened because they were _something _and it was better than _nothing. _Like a friend you secretly hate but still say yes to their invitations to hang out; they're just assholes, they're just assholes to hang out with. It is all pretend, same as the games the two of you play.

I guess my stance is as good as it is going to get because the voice begins spewing out mumbles of other directions:

"Lean into it a bit more," the voice, which is very much Daryl's, says. "And watch your fingers; you can take 'em off with that string."

Once again, I listen and line my shot up with the pretty squirrel's head. I only now realized how pretty it is. The animal is fuzzy from its own winter coat and it makes me want to pet the fur rather than pierce it. But I shut my thoughts down. Instead, I focus on breathing, relaxing – keeping a grip on both myself and this weapon.

I time an inhale with a pull of the trigger, but right before I take action, I allow myself to have one more thought. This squirrel must know what is happening but yet it stays. Maybe it wants this. Maybe it is tired.

So I do it.

The arrow hits exactly where I intended. It smacks into the side of the animal's head and its body flies back, once curled tail going flat. The end of the arrow lodges into the dirt and death pins the body down. I'm not really sure what to think when the crossbow lowers and my shoulder starts buzzing from the kickback. I ended it . . . that is blood on my hands. _Again._ But the squirrel also could have moved because I gave it time.

I end up deciding to let myself _be _because I did accomplish something after all.

My attention turns to Daryl, I bite back a grin, "Soon I'll be doing this on my own."

"Not so fast, kid."

And I kind of wish I never turned around upon seeing Daryl's face. He tries to cover it up but I still see it – see the horror of realization. We both know that one day we'll be gone, maybe him before me or vice versa – maybe at the same time. It is a given in life. But I was not applying hunting to Daryl dying, just him taking a step back while I do some heavy lifting. Now that the other possibility is out there, though, it stays.

He may be afraid of it and I don't know if I am because the threat of death has always been _there._

But then I figure out a little more of him when he brings back a compound bow upon returning from the next run.

* * *

**THE END**

* * *

**Annndddd that's all she wrote!**

**I'd like to thank everyone who joined me in this little journey; it was nice to test out some new waters and expand my horizons writing-wise.**

**I will catch you all later. :)**

**~ Rainy**


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